


And Another Thing...

by LadyAscalon



Category: Black Books (TV), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon-Typical Behavior, Everyone Thinks They're Together, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAscalon/pseuds/LadyAscalon
Summary: Bernard meets another lacklustre bookseller,borrowsmakes some observations, and tells him What's Up.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Bernard Black, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	And Another Thing...

Bernard had forgotten the man’s name before it even finished coming out of his mouth. Well. It was Mister Wotsitthumgy’s own bloody fault for coming into the bookshop in the first place. And asking questions. On a Monday, no less. And before the morning’s wine had managed to muffle last night’s less pleasant reminders.

But oh, yes, there he was, all effusive, “Hullo”s and “Good morning, my dear fellow!”s and “My name is Askimurphdurphle and I’m a book seller in London, too, you see”s and “I heard you had a copy of Umbridge’s Profane New Testament”s and “I say, old chap, are you alright?”s.

Bernard lifted his head from the desk and glared blearily through his fringe at the cream-coloured, plummy-accented blob. He waited until it’d finished nattering before grinding out, “What?”

“I collect rare Bibles,” the blob repeated, patiently. “And I heard you had one that I’ve been after. I wondered if I could have a look at it?” 

Bernard blinked irritably. For all that his eyes felt like deserts, his vision was refusing to become less watery. “What do I look like?” he mumbled. “An oct…opt… oscometrist? Use yer own eyes. If you find it, give me money and go away.”

The blob tutted, then leaned abruptly and unwelcomely into Bernard’s personal space in a whoosh of scent that made Bernard’s already tender stomach swoop woozily. He flailed and nearly toppled out of his chair. 

When he pried his eyes open again, Bernard saw a cold glass full of clear liquid being pressed into his hand. “Drink this, it’ll help.”

“What?!” He snapped, attempting to throw the contents at the general area where the blob’s face ought to be and finding himself irritatingly stymied by the grip the blob still held on the glass’s other side. “What is this?! Water?! From a stranger?! You think I’m going to take water?! From a stranger?!”

“Water?” The blob said. “Looks like a nice Cabernet to me.”

And, indeed, when Bernard looked back down at his hand, the liquid in the glass was a deep, lovely burgundy.

“Ah,” he said. “Well.” And tossed the contents down his throat.

While Bernard had long believed that the best way to fix a hangover was to bribe it with alcohol, he’d admittedly never experienced it in the form of an instant cure. And yet: no sooner had he finished swallowing than his headache had miraculously vanished, his nausea subsided and his eyes were clear. The blob resolved into the shape of a chubby, middle-aged, blond man who looked like he’d wandered in from the set of a period drama with his life greatly improved.

“Feel better?” Mister Waistcoat—for now that he was no longer a blob, that was to be his name—said, smiling benevolently.

“I… You… How…” Bernard stuttered, staring at him.

“You _look_ better,” said Mister Waistcoat, the audacious bastard.

“But… What…” Bernard tried again, before giving up and admitting, sullenly, “Yes.”

“Wonderful! Now, about that book…”

After ten more minutes of torturous, _torturous_ small talk with Mister Waistcoat who was, he reminded him, a bookseller in Soho and a great fan of little hole-in-the-wall shops like Black Books, Bernard finally managed to make a sale at a frankly ridiculous mark-up and maneuver Mister Waistcoat out the door. And after locking the deadbolt very securely between them, he slouched off to pour a glass of Merlot and resolved to never stock any Bible of any kind ever again.

And yet.

And yet.

And yet, for fuck’s sake.

Not a week later, Bernard found himself looking up from his ashtray into the regrettably familiar face of Mister Waistcoat. Wearing the exact same outfit as the last time. Not that Bernard’d committed it to memory or anything. But his own attempts at Magical Healing Cabernet Sauvignon had not gone as well as the original performance and he was curious, damnit. Despite himself.

“Aw, god.” He groaned, looking up. “What d’ _you_ want?”

“Now, Mister Black,” Mister Waistcoat said cheerfully, as though Bernard hadn’t just invoked what Fran called his ‘Great Big Meany’ voice. “I was just in the neighborhood and wondered if you might like to come along with me to the café down the street. We could ‘talk shop,’ as the kids say.” And he _twinkled._ He was just stood there, on the other side of Bernard’s rubbish-strewn, fag-burnt desk, beaming like he was the earthly emissary for Father fucking Christmas.

And though Bernard, if you’d asked him, would have told you in no uncertain terms that there was nothing in the world he wanted less than to be trapped in a café with Mister Waistcoat, the sounds that came out of his mouth sounded awfully like: “You’re paying.”

The “café down the street” was not, surprisingly, the Costa that Bernard was barred from and had been hoping to make a scene at, but an actual, genuine Victorian teahouse a couple of streets away. It was disquieting. Bernard didn’t, as a rule, frequent establishments where the prices weren’t listed on the menus. And the menus weren’t laminated. Or tacked to the wall. Or stuck to the floor.

Mister Waistcoat ordered for both of them, which gave Bernard the ideal opportunity to bitch at the top of his lungs. Somehow, though, he’d ordered precisely the things on the menu that Bernard was eying.

And damnit, it was _nice_. Nice! Tea! With a customer! _Nice!_ Mister Waistcoat ordered not just tea, but champagne and so many cakes and puddings that the server had to wheel them out their own trolley. Bernard tucked right in, the image of Fran’s desperately jealous face warming him from the inside-out.

But the best part was that Bernard didn’t have to contribute to the conversation at all. Because Mister Waistcoat had a pair of lungs on him that could keep a steady stream of words coming out forever. All Bernard was obliged to do was nod and make smile-adjacent grimaces and encouraging noises around the delectable mouth-fulls of cake he was cramming into his face at breakneck speed. And not everything that came out of Mister Waistcoat’s mouth was horrible drivel, either. He talked about bookselling and his favorite books and bookshop in London and then, later, in Dublin, and how he’d sensed Bernard was a kindred spirit—a bookseller who only had a shop in order to have books. “Myself,” he said, “my best days are those when there’s not a punter in sight!” And Bernard had to silently agree.

You would think that running a bookshop for the sole purpose of being closed all the time would mean that Mister Waistcoat would be in a similar financial position to Bernard. Which is to say, when the cheque showed up, in a very awkward position indeed. But when the folio landed on the table, Mister Waistcoat cheerfully pulled a bright gold card from what looked like a _coin purse_ in his pocket, and handed it back to the server with a sweet smile. “Add thirty percent for yourself, would you, my dear?” 

No one would ever accuse Bernard Black of being perceptive about things that didn’t immediately concern him, but all of a sudden the cutesy endearments, manicured hands, neat clothes and warm, fruity voice clicked into place like the snap of a drag queen’s fingers.

“Is this supposed to be a date?!” he whispered—well, he tried to whisper, that champagne had been very, _very_ nice indeed—once their server had bustled off to settle the cheque, blushing and pleased. “I don’t do that. I’m not a dater. I don’t date.”

“It’s not a date.” Mister Waistcoat said, smiling and taking another sip of tea.  


“You’re not my type.”

“That’s fine.”

“I’m too good for you.”

“Undoubtedly.” And—what the fuck?!—he didn’t have a sarcastic edge to him. And Bernard, the High Master of sarcasm, ought to know.

“Fine. Good. So we’re clear.”

“Of course. Ah, thank you, Matilde. Everything was excellent, as always.” Mister Waistcoat took his card back from the server. “Well, Bernard, let me walk you home.”

Bernard would be the first to admit that he was a petty man. And he would therefore be perfectly fine with also admitting that he spent the afternoon (and the next couple of weeks, but who’s counting? Aside from Fran. And Manny.) after their tea in a snit because Mister Waistcoat wasn’t hot for him. Why wouldn’t he want to date Bernard? He was _obviously_ gay. And Bernard was a man. Or at least a man-adjacent thing. He had a face, and some hair. The hair was really quite good, if you gave it a couple of insecticide treatments in the proscribed order and ran a comb through it to knock the corpses out. He could speak in complete sentences, if required to. And he had good taste in wine, insofar as he could taste anything. He might not use it all that often, but he could definitely tell drain cleaner from the good stuff.

But when the answer dawned it made perfect, perfect sense. It was obvious. It was, really, the only explanation: Mister Waistcoat didn’t want to date Bernard because Mister Waistcoat had a _boyfriend._

Bernard announced this triumphantly, to his face, the second he’d figured it out. Well, about two and a half hours after Manny had figured it out. Whatever. Point was, Mister Waistcoat—or “You” as Bernard had taken to calling him to his face, “Mister Waistcoat” being too much of a mouthful and Bernard being too big a coward to admit to the man that he’d never quite managed to catch his name—did a chameleonesque trick and became nearly indistinguishable in color from his glass of Merlot.

“You have a boy-toy,” Bernard repeated, splashing a little wine onto his receipt pad. “A man-companion. A senyor day boo-door.” 

“‘Boudoir’ is French,” a weak voice responded.

“Yeah, and?”

“Well, ‘señor’ is Spanish…”

“Same difference. Still adds up to you having a bit on the side. Eh? Not so ‘beige’ after all.”

“ _Bernard_.” Mister Waistcoat peered over the top of his glass, eyes begging for mercy. “Must you?”

“Feck all else for entertainment.” Most of his next sip ended up in his mouth.

“Really, my dear.”

Bernard raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “I don’t hear you saying I’m wrong.”

"Well, give me a moment.” Mister Waistcoat put his glass down on the desk with the careful manner of a man who knows he might be slightly too tipsy for the safety of objects in his immediate vicinity. He took a deep breath and drew himself up, shoulders back, smile on his face. Not the right smile, though. A weird, false thing that gave Bernard the creeps.

"Wha’s wrong with your face?”

The awkward grin fell off and Mister Waistcoat slumped in his chair again. “Sorry, er. Force of habit.”

“Some habit. What, d’you take shifts at the wax museum?”

“Bernard.”

“You’re the spitting image of Camilla.”

Mister Waistcoat sighed.

“To respond to your insinuation—”

“Wan’t an inin-sinu-insinut. Wan’t. I _said_ it.”

“To correct your _assumption_ : I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t know what would make you think that, but you’re incorrect.”

“Ah ha!” Bernard started digging around on his desk to find the list of points that Manny had drawn up for him. Hmm… Ah, triumph! “I have proof!”

“Oh, yes?” Mister Waistcoat looked like he really didn’t want to entertain this line of conversation, but Bernard wasn’t letting him get away without hearing ~~Manny’s~~ his rock-solid reasoning.

“Number One: there’s that bloke who follows you around.”

“Who?” Oh, he wore the innocent look well, but he was a faaaaaker.

“Tall, posh, dye job, indoor-sunglasses wanker. Walks like his hips aren’t screwed in.”

“Ah.” Yep, there were the pursed lips of the lying, lying liar. “That would be Crowley.”

“Crowley.”

“Yes.”

“Yer boyfriend.”

“ _No._ ” Mister Waistcoat furrowed his brow. “He’s a very old friend— _just_ a friend—who lives nearby.”

“How can he possibly be a ‘very old friend’? He’s twenty years younger than you.”

A mildly-miffed look: “He’s not.”

“You’re a cradle robber.”

“I’m _not._ Honestly, Bernard! What an awful thing to say.” And Bernard’s heart—while certainly dark and hard—was more of an extremely stale pudding than a rock, and the expression on Mister Waistcoat’s face was enough to make him accept that his time on that topic had expired.

“Fine.” He waved it away and backhanded his wineglass in the process. It was only a miracle that Mister Waistcoat caught it before it toppled over and stained the top layer of his desk-mess.

Mister Waistcoat cleared his throat meaningfully as Bernard took a gulp of his rescued prize. It was Mister Waistcoat’s wine and Mister Waistcoat did not skimp. “Moving along: is that the extent of your evidence?”

“Uh, _no._ ” Bernard consulted his list again. “Number Two: I seen him come down from the rooms over your shop.” Well, okay. _He_ hadn’t seen it. He’d been sneaking around the kitchenette at the back of the shop, hunting for the liquor cabinet. Manny had seen it. After Mister Waistcoat started coming in every other day, it was only a matter of time before the hippy met him. And of course the awful nerd just _had_ to see this competing establishment and had dragged Bernard there under high duress.

“Once again,” Mister Waistcoat was now putting on the airs of one humoring a demented child—which was appropriate, probably, okay, but not very _nice_ —“Crowley is an old friend. He has full access to my flat. And,” he added in a voice like he thought he’d pulled his trump card, which was just sad, honestly, “he’s also quite a gifted botanist and he looks after my plants for me.”

“Does he look after them wearing just pants?”

“What? Mister Waistcoat’s eyebrows were doing something complicated.

"‘Cause, when I seen him, he was only in his pants.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a rock-solid lie. “Resorting to fibbing is not going procure a different answer, you know.”

“Yeah, alright. Well, fine. I got one more.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

This was the gross one. Eww. This was the one that had clued him in. Manny wasn’t the only person who could spot things.

“Reason _Three_ : you call each other those disgusting cutesy names. ‘My dear,’ and ‘darling,’ and…” he could feel a gag coming on, “‘ _angel._ ’”

“There’s nothing wrong with—”

“Uh, it’s 2004, _angel_. No self-respecting, male, non-poof under the age of three-thousand says that to ‘just a friend.’”

Now that one had landed. Mister Waistcoat had gone flustered and pink.

“As I said, he’s a very _old_ friend.” 

“Nope.”

“That’s just how we’ve always talked to each other. It’s really… there’s nothing wrong with two men being affectionate.”

Well, he was wrong about that. People in love were awful and mushy and gross and that was definitely, definitely wrong. 

“Whatever. But he’s your boyfriend.”

“He’s _not_ —”

“Who’s your boyfriend?” And WOAH. Holy _shit_. For a giant in poncy high-heeled boots, Sunglasses-Wanker was one sneaky bastard. Well, either that or Bernard was so far into the bottle that his peripheral vision was going. Six of one. Anyway, Mister Waistcoat hadn’t noticed him either, judging by the way that he literally jolted off his chair in shock.

“Crowley!”

“Hello, Aziraphale. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Indeed.” Mister Waistcoat trying to regain his composure was _hilarious._ “And what are you doing here?”

“Saw you eyeing up that pocket _Book of Genesis_ the last time we were here. The one with the hideous drawing on the cover where I—where the snake looks like a sock full of tennis balls.” He shrugs. “Thought I’d pop in and grab it for you.”

“Oh…” Mister Waistcoat continues to fluster, obviously pleased but hyper aware of Bernard mouthing _boyfriend_ at him behind his hand. “Well, I… that’s very kind of you, Crowley. Thank you.”

“Any time. And how are _you_ , Mister Black?”

Oops. It was easy to be snide behind Sunglasses-Wanker’s back, but his face was kind of scary. 

“Fine, yeah. Good. You want to buy that book?”

“Mmm. How much?”

“Twenty-six pounds fifty.” Twenty-six quid profit would buy at least three bottles of five-hour-hangover-wine. And the man was obviously rolling in money.

Case in point: he pulled a fifty out of his wallet. “Keep the change.”

Bernard wasn’t stupid enough to ask if he was sure.

The Wanker turned to Mister Waistcoat. “Are you staying long, angel? I was thinking we might do the Ritz for dinner, if you’re free.”

“Oh, that would be lovely! I think Bernard and I are nearly done here.” He gave Bernard a look that said, _We’re done, aren’t we?_ And Bernard returned him a look that said, _Are you staying long, **angel**?_ “Yes. In fact,” Mister Waistcoat said, “I believe we’re finished.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as part of a longer fic that I will never finish (author, know thyself). Posted because, quite frankly, it amuses me too much to leave lonely on my hard-drive. If you've seen parts of this before, it may be because I posted them on another account. But honestly, I can't recall.
> 
> (No, they're not Boyfriends. Yes, Bernard plays an overbearing, sloppy role in getting them to be Boyfriends. Well, Manny and Fran provide the details, Bernard provides the haranguing.)


End file.
